


A Man of His Word

by thedevilchicken



Category: Furious 7 (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2015-10-30
Packaged: 2018-04-28 23:01:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5108789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In hindsight, it wasn't the worst thing that could have happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Man of His Word

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linndechir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/gifts).



When Owen was seventeen, his brother came home on leave and found him with a bloke in the living room, screwing in front of the Wednesday-night Spurs match on the telly. Owen doesn’t remember who they were playing. He’s not entirely sure it matters.

In hindsight, it wasn’t the worst thing that could’ve happened, though he was fairly fucking pissed off at the time. Deckard dragged the bloke off him before he’d even known there was anyone else in the house - it was some twat he’d met down the pub whose name Owen couldn’t have given two shits about either at the time or after - and beat him down to the crappy beige carpet with both fists. Owen heard the bloke’s nose crunch while he was busy zipping up his jeans and honestly, he wasn’t sure the blood would come out of the pile. It never did, as far as he’s aware. 

“You fuck another man and I’ll kill him,” Deckard told him, scowling, as he launched the poor beaten-up bastard out the front door and onto the driveway outside. He wouldn’t be talking to the local nick, Owen was at least sure of that - Deckard Shaw had a rep even then. Maybe their leafy London suburb wasn’t exactly a stereotypical urban gangland but they’d had their fair share of bloody knife fights in the schoolyard and the playing field behind the shops over the years. Owen was usually the one who started them; Deckard did the finishing. 

And Owen was pissed off at the time, wanted to bollock him soundly for turning up unannounced like it was fine to stroll back in without a word when it was basically Owen’s house now their dad was dead and Deckard was stationed overseas, wanted to give him an earful for fucking up his evening because it wasn’t like his sex life was his big brother’s business and by the time he got back to the telly, Spurs were 2-0 down and he’d missed a hilarious own goal. They sat down at opposite ends of the sofa and watched the rest of the match in stony silence while Owen seethed and _didn’t_ think about the fact that he’d almost got off right there on his knees on the carpet when he’d watched Deckard break that arsehole’s nose. Maybe they were more alike than he liked to admit.

He was pissed off that night and the following day and the day after that till Deckard went back to his post overseas, wherever the bloody hell that was because he didn’t actually say just like he never really said. He was pissed off, but three months later he joined the army too because he had fuck all else to do and then, one night, it dawned on him like a veritable fucking epiphany. 

Deckard hadn’t said _if I find you fucking_ or _if I see you fucking_ or _if I find out you fucked_. He’d been rather more bloody definite about it. 

“If you fuck another man, I’ll kill him,” Deckard had said that night, and Owen still remembers how he said it, the tone of his voice, the look like thunderous fucking fury on his face. And yes, Deckard Shaw was many things, but he was not a liar. 

“If you fuck another man, I’ll kill him,” Deckard had said. 

So, sitting there on his bunk in his barracks that night in his new officer cadet uniform, Owen decided he’d test it. 

He’d find someone to fuck and see what happened. 

\---

The first time, he was still at Sandhurst.

He’d left it six months after his little epiphany, considered the possibilities and implications carefully time and again, talked himself into it and out of it then into it again sixty bloody times and then decided fuck it, why not. So, he picked on the biggest, baddest, most bloody egotistical arsehole there and he went about his plan. It was a good, solid plan, he thought, even for an 18-year-old cadet.

It wasn’t hard to convince Wallace into a blowjob behind the barracks - he’d never known anyone to turn one down, after all - and then he goaded the arse into fucking him over a trestle table in the kitchen in the officers’ mess after lights out one night though he was fairly certain that wasn’t sanitary. It wasn’t bad, as far as sex went, though the table was never the same after that. They never did find out who’d broken it. Frankly, there was more speculation about the table-breaker afterwards than there was about Wallace.

Cadet Wallace turned up dead in a ditch three days later; apparently he’d been drunk off his tits and he’d tripped, or so said the inquest and the coroner’s report and though officially Deckard Shaw wasn’t even in the country when it happened, Owen knew better. His brother could be a sneaky bastard when he wanted to be, because Her Majesty’s Armed Forces had apparently trained him to be. The idea of it was pretty damn riveting, when he thought about it, and he _did_ think about it. 

Of course, what it meant was Deckard must’ve been watching the entire time. Deckard must’ve been watching _him_. And that was irritating because he didn’t need his big brother watching his back all the bloody time because he was doing well at Sandhurst, he’d taught himself how to talk if he wanted to be listened to, he’d calmed down that temper they’d both got from their dad and he was a damn sight better than most of the officers with their shiny undergraduate degrees. He was a hell of a shot and made the rest of them look like cretins when classes turned to strategy. 

But then he calmed down because now it came to it, he had confirmation. Deckard was _watching him_. And he’d meant what he’d said.

The second time, he was a second lieutenant about to be promoted. 

There was this bald-headed sod of an enlisted man in his regiment who liked to think he did karate or taekwondo or something like that, thought he was some kind of hard man, and while they were out in Kandahar on assignment, Owen started chatting him up in his own inimitable way. Simons was a corporal with a permanent chip on his shoulder and problem with authority and apparently the appearance of a second lieutenant a good eight years younger than him who was now telling him what to do had rubbed him the wrong way. So, Owen played on it. He smirked and he joked and he gave the bastard sentry duty night after night till he was so worn out and pissed off that one night all it took to push him over the edge was Owen blowing him a sarcastic kiss as he went off to his tent. 

They did it in Owen’s tent, a frantic fuck on top of a sleeping bag with their dusty trousers shoved down around their thighs, Owen’s legs around Simons’ waist, Simons’ face flushed red from anger and arousal. Six days later, Simons went missing. He turned up in pieces all along the road back to base camp and made half the rest of the team chuck up their breakfast along the way. Owen just smiled behind his hand as they went, as they collected him up, because even there, on some shitty assignment where every day was IEDs and the crackle of gunfire, what Deckard was worried about was his little brother taking it up the arse. Maybe that meant he trusted his judgement on everything else, he thought. It was an idea he liked.

It went on that way for years. Owen moved up through the ranks, moved team to team to team and country to country, Army proper to SAS and he barely even knew he had a brother most of the time. Except then there’d be some vague report about what that bastard Deckard Shaw had been up to in Istanbul or Somalia or somewhere in South America and no one he spoke to about it ever put two and two together and came up with the notion that Deckard Shaw was Owen Shaw’s big brother. Owen was reliable, a good officer if a bit wilful on occasion, followed orders and got the job done. Deckard had always been a wild card. Besides, they didn’t even look that much alike.

It went on that way for years. There’d be some poor sod popped his clogs at least once a year, sometimes twice, some mysterious circumstances that no one could explain or some seemingly clear-cut case for the local coroner or the Forces inquest, a suicide or an accident, a missing person. Sometimes he wondered what the top brass had thought they were doing, training Deckard to do the things he did. Other times, he thought maybe they’d known exactly what they were doing. He’d always known what his brother was, after all. Back at school he’d been the only one who wasn’t scared of him.

He had it off with a civilian contractor in Berlin one summer when he was 24, a couple of weeks after he’d seen Deckard for the first time in two years there on base back in Blighty - he was sure it was him though they hadn’t spoken a word and Deckard hadn’t even looked in his direction across the courtyard. He spent the night sweating in an over-expensive hotel room bed while he thought about what his brother was going to do to the man he was with, if he’d choke him or he’d stab him or he’d drive his car off a bridge like he’d done with the bloke in Serbia. 

He did it with a bloke from his class at Sandhurst while they were over in Iraq, when he’d just taken over the Mobility Division. They talked through the whole thing, about the day they’d found Wallace in the ditch because they both remembered it, the rumours going around when he hadn’t turned up for the morning run and then they’d found out why that was. Owen knew _why_ that was. He’d started it, on purpose, and Deckard had finished it. He had his big brother in his head when he came that time, the look on his face when he’d first said those words back at home in London. He was thinking maybe it should’ve been his brother in him and not some twat Army captain. 

That was a first, thinking of Deckard like that, and maybe he should’ve been concerned by the thought as they cleaned themselves up but he found he really wasn’t. Maybe it wasn’t the first time he’d thought about it after all, and the irony was bloody hilarious, him thinking about his homophobic brother and his concerns about his sex life while he was taking it from behind, thinking about what his brother would do, thinking about his brother _watching_. Sometimes he wondered if Deckard was just quietly seething in front of a monitor wherever the fuck in the world it was that he was or if he was getting off on it, having a crafty wank about it, hating himself for wanting it, though that all seemed somewhat unlikely. Looking back, he thinks maybe the fantasy of Deckard watching just made it better. Maybe that was why he kept doing it, again and again.

On Christmas Day when he was 27, the team was at the base in Kabul. All the others had been on Skype to family at home in the UK who’d been showing off turkey dinners and shitty Christmas jumpers and though they’d semi-politely refrained from asking any questions about Owen’s home life, he could see they were all wondering because they always did. He hadn’t said much about it at all, by design but also because there wasn’t much to tell - mum dead, dad dead, no living relatives but his recalcitrant arse of a brother - but it just got worse as the morning turned to afternoon and the booze started to flow more freely.

They were sitting at a folding table on folding chairs under an awning in the unseasonably warm afternoon, drinking shitty sherry and eating godawful pigs in blankets that someone had managed to put together from bacon and sausage meat pinched from the mess tent. They’d been cooked on a half-cleaned front grille nicked from a Land Rover that they’d set up over a fire like a barbeque and one of the lads looked up and went quiet and stared over his food that was dripping fat all over his fingers. It wasn’t much of a Christmas lunch, not that Owen had had one of those in years.

“Isn’t that…?” he said, and so Owen, against his better judgement, turned in his chair to look. 

“Yes, it is,” he replied, as he turned away again, setting his jaw. 

This brother was striding across the air strip in a flight suit with a parachute draped over his shoulder, lugging a massive kit bag and what looked like a hard shell rifle case, either that or he’d taken up the electric guitar and one was a damn sight more likely than the other. He hadn’t seen his big brother in nine years but it wasn’t as if he’d forgotten what he looked like, or forgotten what he did for a living. 

He fucked a Gunnery Sergeant from the US Marine Corps when afternoon turned to evening turned to night, pushed up face-first against the back of the hangar his team was using as a garage for their fleet of souped-up military vehicles. He did it on purpose, got himself into a poker game though he wasn’t a frequent gambler, at least not in that way, and antagonised the Yank on purpose because he seemed a likely candidate and hell, it was Christmas, he was entitled to have a good time. But while he was pushing back against the gunny’s cock with his mouth pressed up to the inside of his elbow to keep himself at least something close to quiet, that was the time. After all those years, that was it. 

Deckard was there. He knew he was without actually seeing him because it made sense that he was there, and so he did what he always did because he’d long supposed the only way Big Brother could know what he was getting up to in the wee small hours was by having eyes on him. He made a show of it, pushed back hard against the poor unfortunate sod of a gunny, arched his back, made it look good for him, made it look every bit as lurid and obscene as he knew how to. And, of course, right on cue, the Yank was yanked away. 

Deckard had his hands around the gunny’s throat when Owen turned and he was a Marine, he’d clearly had extensive training, but Deckard, well, Deckard Shaw was something else. There was a struggle, a brief one though it was fairly clear the gunny thought he was going to win right up until Deckard got his arm around his throat from behind and pulled and held on tight. As Gunnery Sergeant Martinez’s lights went out, Deckard was looking straight at Owen. Owen was looking straight back at him, his dick in his hand because Christ, watching him work was a turn-on. 

And that, right then, revelling in his brother’s fucked-up talents because Owen wasn’t sure he could’ve done it himself - not that he wasn’t good, but his skills were of the more technical and strategic persuasion and his hands were slick with sweat - watching Deckard let the Marine drop to the ground was when it finally hit him. 

_If you fuck another man, I’ll kill him_ , was what Deckard had said that night back when Owen had still been seventeen years old. And he’d always taken it as his overprotective big brother letting some kind of latent military-issue homophobia shine through the veneer as if killing the men Owen let fuck him was some kind of punishment or a deterrent that might snap him out of his gay phase. But that wasn’t it. Owen smiled. That wasn’t it.

That wasn’t it and so he stepped straight over the Marine, brought one hand up to the back of Deckard’s prickly bald head and he dragged him down into a bruising kiss. Deckard tried to push him away but not really because if he’d _really_ tried he would’ve succeeded, Owen didn’t doubt that at all: their skills were complementary, not identical. So Deckard half-tried to push him away and Owen bit at his bottom lip and made Deckard curse with it under his breath, his voice still familiar after all that time. He rubbed up against him with his trousers still pushed down around his thighs, tough fabric against his ridiculous erection, raked his nails over the back of his neck. And when he pulled back, Deckard had that look on his face, the same one he’d had that night back in London, dark and hot and angry. Everyone he’d heard talk about Deckard Shaw said he was an ice cold killer; Owen supposed he saw a different side to him. Or maybe Owen just brought it out in him. 

And so that was it, face to face and breathless in the half-light of the quarter moon between sentry sweeps. _If you fuck another man_ was the point that mattered. Another man. If he fucked another man who wasn’t Deckard bloody Shaw, he’d kill him. He finally understood, and he saw Deckard saw he understood.

When they did it, they did it on their knees, the toes of their boots scraping on the dusty tarmac, Owen’s back pressed up against Deckard’s chest. Deckard unbuckled his belt and pushed into him quickly, his hands going down over Owen’s thighs, fingers tucked in behind his knees for leverage and it wasn’t exactly gentle; it was short, sharp jerks of Deckard’s hips with his mouth pressed to the crook of Owen’s neck, teeth and stubble scraping by the collar of his worn camouflage jacket. Owen started to stroke himself and Deckard slapped his hand away, then Deckard’s hands were on him instead, one around his cock and the other up at his neck, over his throat, pushed up under his jaw, forcing his head back, making him gasp. They came just like that, Deckard pushed up inside him, Owen’s arms tucked back to grip too hard at Deckard’s hips. He hoped he’d bruised him. 

And then, of course, the unfortunate Marine groaned and stirred. So Deckard pulled out and pulled back and rocked up onto his heels, went up to his feet and Owen watched him pull his sidearm. He screwed a suppressor into place as he walked around the prone Marine, then he put two in the guy’s back and one in his head. And then, he looked down at Owen as they both tucked themselves back into their matching Army-issue trousers. They were both still flushed. They were both still reeling.

“You’re a piece of work,” Owen said. 

“You’re one to talk,” Deckard replied. 

They didn’t really need to say anything else. After all, it’d been nine years but it wasn’t like they hadn’t been close. Deckard had been watching.

They met again the Christmas after that, in a hotel in fucking Hereford of all places and ate a Christmas dinner of packet sandwiches from the local Tesco Metro in front of the shitty Christmas TV in total silence. Then Owen had had enough of it, turned to Deckard and clocked him, caught him off guard - before he knew what had happened they’d destroyed half the hotel room and they were trying not to bleed all over what was left of it. They kissed, suddenly, coppery with blood because Owen had split Deckard’s lip with his fist and he hissed into it as he pushed him down on the wonky damn bed. Deckard pushed down his jeans and slicked himself up while Owen managed to get his own jeans off, or off one leg at least, leaving them dangling from the other. It didn’t matter; they did it half-dressed and face-to-face, slow and hard enough to bruise. Owen was wearing the marks for a fortnight.

They met again the Christmas after that, too, two months after Deckard was unceremoniously ejected from the SAS. Owen was the one who warned him they’d be gunning for him when the discharge came because apparently his veneer of propriety and his propensity for following orders had led everyone to believe he could be trusted, even with that, even against his own brother. Apparently they had no idea what Deckard had done for him over the years. Apparently they had no idea what Owen would do for his brother. He’d been underestimated, mostly because he’d wanted to be. He followed his own orders.

They sent a team just like the brass had said they would and Deckard killed them all down to the very last man while Owen watched on a screen from HQ; two months later he’d still been getting hard when he thought about it, the way Deckard moved, his fists, his aim. He was in London then, back at the house because he’d finally decided to sell up now that he was into his thirties, and in Deckard walked, for the first time since Owen was seventeen and still at sixth form. The sod had managed to get back into the country even though the entire British military was after him. Owen supposed he had to admire that, amongst other things.. 

They were watching a Bond film, Dr No or Goldfinger or something like that, one of the Connery ones that Deckard had always liked as a kid, so their dad had said once upon a time. They were watching a Bond film as Owen went down on his knees on the still-stained carpet and unbuckled Deckard’s belt. He blew him while Deckard’s fingers went into his hair and then they went upstairs while the telly was still on playing the fucking Bond theme, stripped naked and did it in Deckard’s old bed, Owen straddling his thighs and reaching back with one hand to guide him up against him. Deckard watched him. The only thing hotter than doing it was watching his brother watching him do it. 

“Thanks for the heads-up,” Deckard said later, over microwave Christmas pudding and ready-made custard that’d started to develop a skin by that point. Owen was half tempted to see if there were still crackers with the old Christmas decorations up in the attic but the idea of a party hat on Deckard’s shaved head was ludicrous, even if he didn’t suspect they’d’ve mildewed over the past fifteen years.

“Well, who else is going to watch your back?” Owen said. And they both smiled faintly at the irony of it.

And so now, here they are and it’s Christmas again, just the way it always is when they meet. 

They met in Monte Carlo the year after Owen had stolen from the British armed forces and followed Deckard out of the SAS. He’d already had a business plan, after all, and it went quite well up to a point. They met in the Caribbean the year after, in a huge rented house on a beach where they sparred till Deckard had had enough of coddling him through it and knocked him down on his arse in the sand. He’d always been the better fighter, but after they’d fought their way through the house, broken half the living room furniture and bloodied each other up, they disinfected each other’s cuts over a bowl of boiled water on the dining room table while Owen tweaked Deckard’s plans for his next job. Deckard worked alone, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t take assistance at the planning stage. They both knew their strengths.

They met in Madrid the year after that, did a job together on Christmas Eve and Deckard blew him in the hotel room shower in the morning, his hands all over Owen’s abs like he’d just discovered his baby brother was a full-grown man with a body to match. They met in Belgrade the next year, then got snowed in somewhere in Switzerland and had to ski their way out just like another fucking Bond film. And then, of course, there was the year Owen was in a bloody coma. Fucking Dominic Toretto. He’d had plans.

So now, here they are and it’s Christmas again and half the world’s law enforcement agencies want them dead. He woke up one day in the hospital and Deckard didn’t come for him that day or the next day or a week later or a month later and so he knew for the first time in twenty years his brother didn’t have eyes on him. He hated it. So he worked through his physio because the government wanted him at his best to stand trial, then he took out the next doctor who arrived in his room, put on his clothes, called the guard, snapped his neck and walked out with a gun under the back of his fetching white coat. He went to his cache and cleared it out and he left the country, went across the channel on the next ferry and flew out of Charles de Gaulle after a two-minute conversation with a contact who’d known roughly what had happened. Six weeks later, he broke his big brother out of the deepest, darkest hole on the bloody planet and then, _then_ , Dominic Toretto didn’t stand a chance. None of them did, when the Shaw brothers worked together. 

Now here they are and they know the world’s coming for them. That’s never really mattered before so it doesn’t really matter now; they’re in a house that’s not theirs in the Dominican Republic and it’s Christmas Day again, and when the world comes, they have a plan for that. But for now, Deckard traces Owen’s newest scars with his fingertips while they’re stripped down naked in the bed that’s not theirs and Owen knows he’s thinking about the things they’ve done for vengeance, for each other, because they’re brothers and there’s no one in the world that matters but the two of them. 

Owen catches Deckard’s wrists and rolls and pins him down beneath him, hands above his head, and Deckard laughs like an insufferable arse but he lets him do it. Owen settles between Deckard’s thighs and he rubs against him, languid but there’s obvious intent behind it.

“You fuck another man,” Owen says, “and I’ll kill him.” 

And maybe he’s not a man of his word the way that Deckard is, but he means every word of it.


End file.
